He looked at her critically—at her face, paler than its wont, her shadowed eyes, the slight lines of her figure—grown slighter even during the brief span of a week.
“I’m all right,” he returned pointedly. “But I can’t say as much for you. What have you been doing in my absence? Pining?”—quizzically.
“Not exactly,” she answered dryly. “I’ve had—oh, various worries. Nothing to do with you, though.”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Brett, with a flash of sardonic humour, the significance of which was lost on Ann.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it,” she responded indifferently.
“Are you worrying about this slur on your fair name?” he demanded next, as airily as though he were inquiring if she was worrying about the trimming of a new hat. “My revered aunt has told me all the news, you see.”
Ann winced.
“Brett, how can you speak like that?” Her voice trembled. “It—it isn’t anything to laugh at. It’s horrible!”
He regarded her in silence. Then:
“No. It isn’t anything to laugh at,” he said suddenly. “It’s my chance.”